Locked Room
by robspace54
Summary: DI Poole and the team are presented with a classic mystery. But Saint-Marie has it's own surprises.
1. Chapter 1

Locked Room

By robspace54

**This is a work of fan-fiction, meaning that I do not claim any ownership or in any way mean to impugn the rights of the property owners or assigns. "Death in Paradise" is produced by an entire zoo (7 in all) of companies and if you want to know their names – look them up!**

I don't like boats; not canoes, or punts, simple rowboats, inflated rafts or car ferries or cruise liners. But this – this twenty foot speedboat bucketing along from wave crest to wave crest bouncing teeth loose from my jaws – had to be the worst. I turned my head to see Dwayne at the tiller half laughing, pushing the throttle forward even more to make the thing accelerate.

"Richard? Isn't this fun?" shouted Camille Bordey over the scream of the motor.

"No," I gulped, trying to keep my breakfast down. I tugged the life vest straps until they were as tight as I could bear. I looked up at Camille who was standing next to me, her long and bare legs braced against the leaps and jolts of the boat, knees slightly bent riding the watercraft like a bucking horse.

Horses - another thing I didn't like. "How can you stand this… this… pounding?" A spray of spume came over the bows and I ducked, but got my suit dashed with saltwater anyway. Of course I was the only one wearing a life vest, but no matter. If Camille or Dwayne fell overboard they could sink or swim as far as I was concerned, as they likely planned this special torture just for me.

Camille dropped down next to me on the bare seat, perched there totally unconcerned while Officer Myers hooted and hollered behind us. "Richard, almost _everyone_ on the island has a boat. Some even claim to have been born in one," her dark eyes flicked away then back while she grinned at me mischievously, "or conceived in another. And you look white as a sheet."

Breakfast was rapidly starting to go the wrong way, making me wish the sausages had been refused that morning. I clamped my mouth tightly, and breathed deeply through my nose, trying to think of the calming voice of Fiona Bruce on Antiques Roadshow. 'Now these are really exquisite vases, wherever did you find them?' she was asking in my mind, while the eggs and the fruit of today's first meal were tickling the base of my tongue.

Another plunge made the boat take more water over the bow as Camille laughed. "Isn't this fun?" She wiped water off her bare arms as I tried not to sneer at her multicolored outfit of flower print blouse, denim shorts, which were very brief and tight, and flip-flops. She often wore the briefest of outfits and though I'd tried to be diplomatic about her attire, I was duty bound not to make any criticism seem sexist. Given that most of the island paraded around in a lot less she could be considered overdressed.

I glared at her. "Detective Sergeant," I managed to yell in her direction, "this _isn't_ fun! It's _work_. We're going to a murder investigation. Quit acting like it's a party outing."

She rolled her eyes. "Spoilsport." She muttered something else in heavily accented French, and I knew better than to inquire her meaning.

We rounded a headland and a small dock and curved beach came into view, just as Dwayne cut the throttle. The boat glided up to the white dock, obviously freshly painted, where Fidel Best, our young tech expert, stood with a grim look to his smooth face.

Camille threw Fidel a rope at the bow and he smartly damped our remaining momentum snub ing the rope on a davit.

Fidel looked down at me, "DI Poole," he said gravely, "it's…" he gulped.

"Come on spit it out, and help me up," I said as he pulled me onto the dock. Dwayne followed Camille and I had to fall to one knee as I caught my breath after the hellish boat ride. "Don't suppose I could have another pilot when we go back?"

Dwayne clapped me on the back and peeled the life vest from my sweating frame. "No Chief. I'm the best for you," he smiled showing a galaxy of white teeth. "Fidel likes to go faster than me and Camille, well…" he smiled even more, "she burns motors up left and right."

Camille laughed at the gibe. "I like it fast," she purred.

"Fine," I sighed. "So Fidel, what have we got?"

He shook his head. "Two… I think…" and stopping, bent forward at the waist and vomited into the sea.


	2. Chapter 2

Dwayne helped Fidel to stand after his gastric explosion. "There, there, Fidel."

The boy looked at me mortified. "Sorry Chief."

"These things can be…" I caught Camille as she rolled her eyes, "upsetting."

Fidel pulled a handkerchief out and shakily wiped his mouth. "Oh yes. This one… is."

I looked down the dock onto the island. "Just how small is this island?"

"Barely a third of a mile across and _very_ private," said Dwayne. "All de big wigs dey come here, rent it for weeks at a time." He ducked his head and winked at me. "I hear dere can be some real parties – know what I mean?"

"Ahem, let's…" it was barely eight o'clock and the sun was already scorching as I squinted up at it. "Get out of the sun. Show us the scene."

Fidel nodded. "Come on. I got the area cordoned off."

"The whole island?" Camille half laughed.

"No, just the house… well… sort of the house… whatever; just come on." Fidel set a brisk pace and blessedly the shade under the palms was deep and slightly cooling while their fronds overhead waved in rustling waves. "Just up here," Fidel said to us. "My third cousin works here, kitchen staff, so he called me when he came over to fix breakfast. He found them. Luckily I was already up. The baby was crying all night."

Camille asked, "How is she?"

"Fine, fine, teething we think." Fidel looked away from me. "Seems strange to be discussing babies at a murder scene."

"Fidel," I nearly scolded him, "we don't know that it's a murder."

The boy looked at me with a haunted stare. "Oh no, sir, you're wrong. This has to be a murder."

I shook my head at him. "We'll see."

Camille drew me aside so there was some distance between us and Fidel while Dwayne followed him carrying the crime scene case. "Why do you badger the boy?"

"Detective Bordey," I admonished her with a formal tone, "how many times must I try to impress on you that nothing is certain until it has been proven?"

"Richard, you _can_ call me Camille, and no, not always. Do you have to _prove_ the sky is blue or that the ocean is salt to know it to be true?'

I shrugged. "Not necessarily."

"Chief?" Dwayne called from ahead on the white sand path, waving at us. "Come on!"

Camille shook her head again in the disapproving way she can.

"I'm only saying…"

She turned her head. "Richard. Let's just go look at the body or bodies."

"Fine, fine."

Fidel had found some rope and encircled the pavilion; I'd not call it a house. Polished marble columns soared upwards supporting a wooden ceiling pierced with skylights interspersed by large ceiling fans which circled lazily. There were scattered lounges and chairs, glass tables, two hot tubs, one under cover, the other not, and a large pool next to the structure. At the back of the roof were tall walls painted pale green and yellow framing archways into the rest of the place.

The beauty of the building, the precious wood, gleaming tables, and fine furniture was marred by the presence of two things; a naked and very dead white woman of rather eye-catching proportions and the bloody body of a man twenty feet away.

So this was why Fidel had lost his breakfast. "Dwayne?" I said as he shook his head and opened the case. "Gloves."

I put them on while Camille took up the camera and started snapping photographs.

I went to the woman's body first. She lay on her back, eyes half closed, lips parted, and palms up. Both feet were chastely together but she was very naked and she smelled of alcohol and suntan oil when I squatted down to get a closer look. "No tan lines."

Dwayne stood there entranced, looking at the flawless skin of the beautiful body. "My, my," he was saying over and over. "Oh my." He blew a low whistle. "Like I said lots of parties out here. All de fishermen say so."

"Keep your mind on business Dwayne. No earrings, but her ears are pierced," I said. I withdrew a pen from my pocket and gently rolled her hands over examining fingernails which were perfect ovals, except for one which was broken. "Fidel, better bag her hands."

"Right," he said fumbling the case open. "Back there, I am sorry, you know. Not that often I see…" He bolted upright and dashed into the greenery where I heard him getting sick once more.

Camille said to me, "Richard, I need for you to come here."

"What?" I bristled at her. "All in good time."

"No, now."

I stood. "Dwayne check the perimeter and Fidel please."

The older policeman dragged his eyes away from the body. "My Lord. Sweet Jesus, we got us a problem."

"Always a problem when there's a body, Dwayne."

"Commissioner Patterson is not going to be pleased."

"He never is," I answered. I walked over to Camille who was taking photos of the other body. It was clothed in cargo shorts and ripped T-shirt. Another Caucasian, I assumed, but the tan was deep and complete. Someone had hacked the groin area to pieces, severed the right forearm, and slit the throat plus crushed in the front of the face rendering his face detached and scattered.

Camille shook her head. "They did a pretty thorough job."

"Battered the face in as well. That should not slow ID if he was one of the guests."

"They really wanted him dead," Camille said sadly.

I craned my neck at the dead woman. "So what happened here? She's lying there like a goddess, while he looks…"

"Like the butcher had a bad day."

I wrinkled my nose. "That's one way to put it."

Thrashing from the bushes heralded the return of a pale and sweaty Fidel. "Sorry. Sorry, it's," he waved his hands at the scene, "not _this_. The wife, she made a fish stew last night and …" he gulped and wiped his brow with a quivering hand. "Maybe it wasn't so good." He retreated from sight again.

I bent down and realized the victims were aligned, feet to feet, but while the woman was arrayed gracefully, the man was contorted, his upper body twisted to the side. His head was turned to the right. I got down on the tile floor and looked in the direction the face pointed if he'd have had a face. A dark mark on a tree some distance away caught my eye. "Something over here." The mark, upon inspection, was the mark of a bullet lodged deeply into the bole.

"A spotless villa, idyllic one might say, soft breezes, beautiful evening – it was last night. And there was Champagne." An empty bottle sat between them on an elegant coffee table, but three glasses stood on a tray. "Hmmm."

Camille said, "Now what?"

"Two of these glasses appear to be used, but not the third. Two people, enjoying the warm evening," I cranked my head around. "No sign of the woman's clothing, so it must have been a friendly party."

"So?" Dwayne said.

"So why have three glasses out for two people? The woman dead by unseen means and the man hacked and battered. Obviously a crime of frenzied passion. But who else was here?"

Fidel's voice came out of the shrubbery. "Carl, my cousin, he's around the back. He said there was no one else here after sunset, just the guests. Two of them."

"Hm. Well, perhaps Carl can help shed some light."

Dwayne was bagging the glasses, both used and unused. He lifted the bottle and held it up. "Almost full."

"So whatever happened - it was quick - before the party went on too long," I said.

Camille took up station over the woman's body and raised her camera. She looked through it and paused. "Oh no," she sighed.

"Yes." Dwayne nodded. "That's what I think too."

"What?" I asked.

Camille looked very hard at me. "Yes the commissioner will be upset. _Extremely_. Don't you know who this is?"

I peered down at the female body and how easy it was to change from a _person_ into a body, I reflected. "No."

"This is… or was," she bit her lip, "Madeline Raines."

I shook my head in the negative. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Movie star? Won an Oscar last year?" Dwayne prompted me. "She was in that thriller; '_Death at Midnight_.' Surely you've seen it."

Fidel's head popped up. "I think you're right. She's my wife's favorite." He cocked his head and looked at the dead face. "A beauty and a great actress."

I groaned. "Right. Well her last role is a corpse, then. Oscar or not, we have to find out who killed her and this man."

Dwayne crossed himself and blew a low mournful whistle "Oh my. Dis is a right mess."

Camille fired off some photos. "Richard," she sighed, "better prepare for the deluge of the Press."

"How bad can it be?" I replied knowing I was likely underestimating that issue. "Now where's this Carl?"


End file.
